


On Feeding Arthur Pendragon Grapes

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bootblacking vibes, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Merlin is out as a sorcerer, Power Play, Rimming, Roleplay, Scent Kink, Service Kink, Sweat, also sexy tack cleaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28021383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “Merlin,”he hisses, nails digging into the back of his neck with a warning bite. “Myactualservant is going to walk in any minute and catchyoucleaning me up with your fucking tongue.”
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 157





	On Feeding Arthur Pendragon Grapes

**Author's Note:**

> this was a gift for my wonderful wife!!! It's canon divergence where Arthur doesn't tragically die and Merlin gets to be his esteemed and adored court sorcerer. Mostly its just filthy porn though. I was cleaning and oiling my saddle and was like Merlin does this all the time for Arthur and thats....hot. and then I wrote this.

—-

Most days, Merlin does not miss being Arthur’s servant. 

After all, it’s been a very long time since his duties were that of the _average_ servant, and he still gets to partake in the bits of the ritual he actually _liked:_ caring for Arthur, tending to his minor training scrapes, assisting him with his speeches, offering counsel. Only _now_ , he gets to do these things half naked and sprawled out in the king’s quarters, tangled up beside Arthur in dirty sheets someone _else_ will wash. Being appointed Arthur’s Court Sorcerer has its benefits, but being _Arthur’s_ has even more, he thinks. 

However, there are moments he idly longs for the intimacy of polishing his armor, conditioning the leather of his tack. He finds himself scrutinizing the work of Arthur’s new (and perfectly adept) young manservant and finding that although Arthur’s breastplate shines just as clean and bright as it did under Merlin’s care, there is something— _missing._ Some layer of attentive detail, for Merlin did not just soften the billets of Arthur’s saddle with neatshoof oil every week because it was expected of him, but because he could not bear the idea of the leather getting stiff enough to snap. Everything he did for Arthur as his servant was motivated by love, not duty. And of course, he cannot expect that to be replicated in the service of another. 

“You’re jealous,” Arthur teases one night, nosing into Merlin’s sex-mussed hair as he tears the stitching out of a newly repaired hole in one of Arthur’s sleep shirts. His manservant mended it earlier today, and he used _black_ thread when the garment was _ivory,_ and furthermore the stitches are inexpert and puckered. “You hate the thought of some other man touching my clothes.” 

“It’s not that,” Merlin mumbles, threading the needle he brought up with the _proper_ shade of white thread and tying it off. “It just looks stupid.” 

“ _You_ look stupid,” Arthur counters, reaching out and carding a hand through Merlin’s hair, making it stick up in sweat-crusted whorls so that he does, indeed, look stupid. “Imagine, Camelot’s esteemed Sorcerer getting up in the _wee_ hours of the fucking morning when he should be sleeping, _just_ to mend the kings clothes because he thinks some _thread_ doesn't match? A disgrace.” 

“Imagine, the King of Camelot wearing a shirt with an ugly little patch of black stitching _right_ near the nipple,” Merlin says, even though he _knows_ full well he's being ridiculous. The patch job isn't _that_ bad and Arthur rarely sleeps in clothes _any_ way and the chances of another human save for Merlin even _seeing_ him in this particular garment are slim to none. And even _if_ it was a fine piece of clothing Arthur was planning to don for a feast the next evening—this isn’t even Merlin’s _job._ Not anymore. His mouth twists into a frown and he finishes the stitching, using his teeth to sever the thread after the neat, tight knot. “It’s done, we can quit arguing about it.” 

“We’re not arguing,” Arthur says cheerfully, visibly delighted Merlin is setting the shirt aside and turning his full attention to him. Arthur hates not having Merlin’s full attention. “ _You’re_ just working your way to inevitably admitting that you miss blacking my boots and feeding me grapes and wistfully sniffing my shirts when you think I'm not looking because you’re terribly in love with me,” he offers, with a very complacent smile on his lips, which are still full and pink and swollen from so much kissing earlier in the night. Merlin thumbs over a raw spot his own stubble scraped on Arthur’s chin, heart clenching in his chest because yes, _he is_ terribly in love with him. 

“I never fed you _grapes,_ ” he says instead, cupping the back of Arthur’s neck to drag him in. “And trust me, I do _not_ miss blacking your stinking disgusting boots. Or spending hours slaving away over your armor. Or mucking the stables.” 

Arthur skips pressing their mouths together in favor of licking right into Merlin’s, slick and hot and filthy. Merlin’s stomach drops, his mind whiting out in blissful static for a moment until Arthur pulls away. “Maybe you just miss me ordering you around, then,” he suggests, voice nothing but a low, sweet rumble. Merlin melts under him, parting his thighs so that Arthur can climb atop his hips and grind down, the weight of his body the most absolving, heart-crushing thing. 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “You still do that quite a lot,” he reminds him. 

Arthur peels back, eyes glittering in that terrifying, boyish, wonderful way they do, like the whole of his insides and all their truths are spilling out of him, unspooling in ribbons of blue. Like he cannot believe Merlin and his magic are _his_ to stain his hands in, his to cherish forevermore. “I suppose you’re right,” he growls, mouth hot and soft at Merlin’s pulse. “Case in point: roll over so I can fuck your pretty thighs.” 

And Merlin _is_ admittedly very happy to do what he’s told in this case. 

—-

The discomfort regarding Arthur’s _new_ servant doing tasks Merlin formerly took pride in stubbornly remains, though, nagging insistently at the back of Merlin’s mind and needling into him whenever he’s reminded. There was just something so deeply satisfying about tending to all of Arthur’s belongings _,_ and even if Merlin was never very good at the technicality of it, he was _superb_ at the intention. 

Merlin supposes, at his core, he _does_ miss it. He misses polishing Arthur’s gauntlets until he could see his own reflection refracted back to him in the segments of metal, as if his own visage was being cradled in Arthur’s hand. He misses rubbing neatshoof oil into the seat of Arthur’s saddle, thinking about his ass and the infuriatingly pert shape of it, cheeks hot and red as he furiously kneaded the leather. It shouldn't matter anymore, though. When he was Arthur’s servant he didn't get to _have_ him any other way, all he possessed regarding Arthur was his own longing, and he poured every ounce of that into his work. But he doesn’t need to touch Arthur by proxy of his armor and tack anymore, because he can touch Arthur _himself_. His actual hands, his actual ass, _all_ of Arthur is very indisputably Merlin’s now, every night and even several times a day if he so chooses. He doesn’t know _why_ he still wants to bury his face in his dirty clothes and inhale, why he’s driven to mend the torn seams. But he does. It even distracts him from his _new_ duties as Court Sorcerer, obsessing over the things he once did as the king’s manservant. 

Lately, the majority of his work is not _practicing_ magic but writing formal documents _regarding_ the practice of magic. It’s necessary, but quite boring. Since magic has been formally legalized in Camelot, there are a number of safety regulations and protocols which must be followed, and Merlin spends much time weighing the ethical questions therein and writing them down. The work is both thankless and tireless, not to mention irritatingly cerebral. He finds himself sitting at his desk idly doodling dragons on the parchment, or else staring out the window onto the courtyard if it’s a sunny day, remembering the salt and leather and manure and grass smell of the livery, which, in retrospect, was actually sort of comforting. Ot at least grounding. 

When he eventually decides to take a break for a brisk walk through the breezeways, he convinces himself it’s to clear his head. But once he’s there, he ends up finding Arthur’s tack, and his new servant seated on an upside-down barrel dutifully cleaning it. “Hullo,” Merlin says with an awkward wave, and the boy jumps, nearly toppling over. 

“My lord,” he says, bowing so deeply his scarf touches the hay-strewn floor. “I didn’t see you coming.” 

“I snuck up on you, a bit,” Arthur admits with a shrug. He pulls over his own barrel and sits after taking one of Arthur’s bridles down from its peg. “It’s a lot of straps and buckles to keep track of, isn't it?” he asks conversationally, nodding to the breast collar the boy is currently half tangled up in, fingers black with the sticky dirt one strips from leather. 

He stares, saddle soap smudged on his face. “Am I—am I doing it wrong, sir?” 

“No! Not at all. Also…no need to call me ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’ or anything else stuffy. M’just Merlin,” he explains. The boy continues to eye him warily, fist tightening on the oiled leather in his palms. Merlin sighs, realizing that this is a part of his old life he misses, too. Gossiping with the other servants, being seen as _human,_ as approachable. And it’s wonderful he no longer has to _hide_ his magic, but that doesn’t mean people don’t _fear_ it all the same. He can always tell when someone he's talking to _knows_ who he is, and has made their own assumptions about it. Or, more commonly, harbors their own reservations about it. 

“Perhaps you don’t know,” he starts, grabbing a brush from the bucket of cold water between them and beginning to scrub the green flecks of feed crusted onto the twisted snaffle bit in his palms. “But before I was Court Sorcerer, I had your job, as Arthur’s manservant. I did this every week. Scrubbed down the tack, polished it until it shined, oiled the horse’s hooves, mucked their stalls.” 

The boy scoffs, shaking his head. “That explains a lot,” he mumbles. 

“What does it explain?” Merlin shoots back, grinning as he rinses the bit gently in the bucket and hangs up the bridle in favor of taking another down. “How nothing about me passes as noble?” 

“Well yes, that,” the boy says, regarding him quizzically, cheeks coloring a bit like he doesn’t want to say the next part, not really. But people share truths more freely with Merlin now that they worry they can be changed into a toad if they wrong him, so he chews his lip and eventually admits, “Also—the others—they’ve asked me if I’ve been told to keep the king’s sheets warm at night. Things like that. I didn’t understand, but now—now I do.” 

Merlin sputters in sudden barking laughter. “Oh—oh. Well. No, m’happy to say that’s not Arthur’s regard for _all_ his servants, only—“

“Only you,” the boy interjects, nodding as he digs a bit of mud from the metal detailing on the breast collar with the tip of a hoof-pick. “Well, that’s a relief,” he adds. They polish in silence for a moment, the only sound in the whole of the stables save for the occasional nicker or snuffle the squeak of rag against clean silver. Then the boy smacks his lips and says, “M’ surprised to see you here. I guess. I thought anyone would be _glad_ to never have to condition crusty old girths ever again.” 

Merlin’s mouth twists, and he chews the inside of his cheek. “I thought I’d be glad,” he says, holding up the bridle so he can regard his own reflection, distorted in the reflective shine of it. “And I am. Or, grateful, at least. But I suppose there are things I miss.” 

The boy shoots him a cheeky, crooked grin. “In that case, you’re welcome to muck the stalls if you’d like.” 

Merlin hands him the bridle, cocking his head and returning his smile. “I’ll leave that bit to you.” 

The smell of neatshoof and saddle soap cling to his fingers long after he returns to his desk to chip away at his proclamations, and he brings them up to inhale from often, because even the scent is grounding, like a memory. 

—-

Arthur strides into his quarters in chainmail after a particularly brutal day of training, his hair drenched in sweat and his cheeks cherry red. And as Merlin looks up from the bed and his line of vision falls upon him, suddenly, it all clicks into place: his jealousy. His aimless longing. The peculiar sensation he’s _missing_ something he already has. “Oh,” he says, furrowing his brow. 

“What?” Arthur asks him, setting his helmet down on the table with a _clank. “_ And have you _seen_ my servant boy? He was out on the field and then he disappeared somewhere. I thought he might be up here, but clearly not. I walked _all_ the way up the stairs in full armor for _nothing._ He’s _almost_ as useless as you were, Merlin, and he’s not even in love with me, so he hardly has an excuse for being so terribly absentminded.” 

Merlin stands, gaze raking up and down Arthur’s body. He _hears_ what he says, but he hardly registers it. The blood is pounding too loudly in his ears for him to make out the words, the meaning. He swallows thickly. More than anything else he can _smell_ Arthur: the overwhelming musk and spice of his training-sweat, the salt patina at his temples, the mud on his boots. It assaults him in an overwhelming wave as he inhales, memories crashing against him like storm sea against a shore. “Sire,” he murmurs, making a fist in the chainmail and tugging Arthur in by it, lost in the wild blue flash of his eyes. “Let me help you.” 

“Have you gone mad?!” Arthur says, grabbing Merlin’s wrist. “You don’t need to worry yourself with my dirty armor anymore, Merlin. I have a proper servant for that. You can conjure flowers and use up all my ink wells drawing magical beasts or just lie there on my sheets looking pretty, for all I care. I don't know what you get up to all day, but it doesn't need to be _this_.” 

“No,” Merlin says simply, shaking his head. “I _want_ to busy myself with your dirty armor. I _miss_ busying myself with your dirty armor. I miss seeing you like this. I miss you trusting me with small things—with keeping you safe, and clean. Or seeing you wounded, or dirty,” he explains frantically, the words stumbling out of him in a clumsy, too quick string.

Arthur chokes out an incredulous laugh, but when Merlin does not return it he stops, freezing and _staring_ at him, sweat-mussed brows raised over his wide eyes, lips parted. “Merlin,” he says softly then. “I trust you with my _life._ With my heart. What on earth is this about?” 

“It’s about—I didn’t _just_ tend to you the way I did _because_ I was your servant. I did it because I love you. Because I _love_ _serving_ you,” he murmurs, reaching up with his free hand and swiping his thumb through the shine of perspiration collecting in the hollow of Arthur’s throat. “Let me,” he begs then, stepping close so he can suck in the wild, huff of Arthur’s exhalations. Then, because he knows it _always_ helps to tell Arthur he was right about something, he adds, “I hate to admit it, but you were on to something. It _does_ bother me, not to have all of you.” 

Arthur wavers there for a moment, but then he relents. “Fine,” he says eventually, gaze sweeping up to the ceiling as he lets go of Merlin’s wrist. “But only because there’s no-one _else_ to do it. Goodness, I had no i _dea_ you loved being my servant so much. You always made it look so _painstaking.”_

Merlin shakes his head, making quick work of the snaps and joints of the armor as he carefully removes it, revealing Arthur in layers. It’s been _months_ since he did this particular task, but he has the muscle memory treasured deep inside him, close to his heart. And the whole time, he can _smell_ Arthur, the sharp bite of his sweat, the fresh, grass and sunshine ghost of the training field still clinging to him. This used to _torture_ him so: to suck Arthur into his lungs, to _touch_ him without really _feeling_ him. It had been a constant, dull, maddening ache, to exist in such constant proximity to the man he wanted, but could not have. But now, he does not have to be careful. He doesn’t have to hide that he’s looking, or pretend it does not move him to see. 

Despite the lack of damning evidence otherwise, Arthur is not stupid, so, he notices Merlin’s gaze lingering, the way his eyes are raking hotly and possessively over each new inch he reveals. “You’ve been seeing me naked every day for _years,_ Merlin,”he reminds him, apparently finding this whole thing amusing. “You saw me naked this _morning_. You sucked my cock last night. You _do_ have all of me.” 

“I saw you naked every day for years and _thought_ you'd chop my head off if you knew the way I wanted you,” he corrects, voice a low tremble of a thing as he hooks his fingers in Arthur’s chainmail and pulls it over his head. His tunic is dark with sweat underneath it, hair rucked up in back after the fact, and all of it snags in Merlin’s gut, floods his mouth, cracks him open. “I suppose I only just realized, I haven’t _served_ you the way I once did since I figured out you wanted me back.” 

Arthur studies him. “I see,” he says, finally nodding, widening his stance, relaxing into the familiarity of Merlin’s touch now that he understands where this is coming from. “I _knew_ you missed feeding me grapes,” he says with a smirk. 

“I _never_ fed you grapes,” Merlin reminds him, pressing a brief, wet kiss on the jut of his adam’s apple, loving the sweet rumble it elicits. When he licks his lips, they taste of the sea. 

“So, you’d like to serve your king? Do as you’re told?” Arthur asks in a low voice, cupping Merlin’s face in one hand, thumbing over his cheek bone. 

“Yes,” Merlin murmurs. Then he slips his hands beneath the hem of Arthur’s tunic to spread greedy palms over the slick, hot skin beneath. Arthur is still so _hot,_ thrumming in time with his pulse, sticky with sweat, and Merlin has to keep swallowing _spit_ over how badly he wants to _taste_ it. Drop to his knees and lick it up, touch Arthur how he always _longed_ to, back when he was forced to touch him every other way, day in and day out until it drove him mad. “I want you like this,” he admits, digging his nails in. “Dirty. Half-dressed.” 

“Well get on with it then,” Arthur says after a shaky, staggering inhalation. He leans back against the wall and palms himself through his trousers, eyes sweeping over Merlin’s face and then up and down his body unabashedly, like _he,_ too, hasn't considered what it might feel like to really _look,_ in this context. “You know—I thought about it too,” he murmurs as Merlin crowds him, puts his hands on him, ruts against him as their lips bump together, just short of a kiss. “Always, every moment. I was always trying to find excuses to touch you.” 

“I know,” Merlin murmurs before crushing their mouths together, hands raking up Arthur’s chest, clawing at his shoulders, scrambling for purchase against sweat-slippery flesh. Arthur groans into his mouth and opens up, letting Merlin lick sloppily inside, letting him take what he wants. “Sire,” he murmurs between kisses, dizzy with the scent of Arthur's sweat clinging to him like woodsmoke, spicy and earthen and wonderful. “My lord.” 

“Fuck,” Arthur grinds out, head thunking against the wall as Merlin licks his way down his neck, up to his ear, beneath the laces of his tunic before he pushes the whole thing up around his neck to find more skin. “I bet you thought about this the first time you met me,” Arthur chokes out, carding his hand through Merlin’s hair, rough and careless. “Putting that _obscene_ pink mouth all over me. Getting on your knees.” 

Merlin coughs out a laugh against Arthur’s chest before licking a rivulet of sweat up his side, tongue painting a stripe from his ribs to his underarm, where he buries his nose to inhale, eyes fluttering closed in overwhelm. “ _You_ certainly thought about it. Mentioned it at least twice. Looked me up and down like you wanted to put me on my back and have me right there,” he huffs out before manhandling Arthur’s arm up above his head so that he can mat the hair of his pit down with saliva. Arthur freezes, shudders, sucks in a desperate breath. 

“ _Merlin,”_ he hisses, nails digging into the back of his neck with a warning bite. “My _actual_ servant is going to walk in any minute and catch _you_ cleaning me up with your fucking tongue.” 

Merlin stops what he’s doing long enough to nod towards the door, mutter an incantation, and watch it swing shut and lock. “Not anymore,” he offers, pressing a kiss to the dark blonde hair in Arthur’s underarm before sucking it into his mouth, nursing until the strong, spicy bite of sweat clings to his tongue and promises to stay for hours. Arthur squirms against him, groaning, rutting his hard cock against his thigh the way he _always_ does when Merlin uses magic in front of him. He’s definitely not used to it yet despite the fact he’s known for nearly a year at this point, and it definitely _affects_ him somehow, makes him all flustered and frustrated and helpless and fidgety in this way that Merlin loves. “Hold still, my lord,” Merlin warns, thumbing into the ditch of Arthur’s waist. “You must let me do my job.” 

Arthur relents, lifting his other arm over his head so Merlin can lick his way over to _that_ pit too, after sucking each of his nipples until they’re hard and red, framed in bite marks so Arthur is a mess of pale skin and dappled bruises. “You actually love this,” he observes after a few minutes of standing there quaking, grinding against Merlin in steady bucks as he grits his teeth and withstands the insistent wet press of his mouth in such a sensitive place. “You’re _dripping._ There’s a wet spot on your trousers.” 

Merlin nods helplessly, gaze flashing up to hold Arthur’s for a moment only to find him _stricken,_ eyes black, pupils blown wide to edge the blue out to the farthest reaches of the iris. He looks at Merlin like he cannot believe him, like he’s awed, like he’s in _love._ And the most astounding piece of all is that he _is._ Merlin knows because he murmurs it every night up against the shell of his ear before they fall asleep, or sometimes into the topmost knob of his spine as he bends him in half to fuck him sweet and deep and rough. Arthur _loves_ him, and Merlin does not _have_ to settle for the feel of his saddle leather beneath his palms, or the smell of his dirty hair before he kneads soap into it to work into a lather anymore. He can lick up his sweat. He’s allowed to. He’s welcome to. The realization keeps hitting Merlin square in the chest like it’s a new thing, sending him staggering back and gasping. “I love it,” he admits, before sinking to the ground on his knees, mouthing a path down the soft trail of hair on Arthur’s stomach to where he’s tenting his trousers.

Arthur stares at him as he sucks him through the fabric, fitting his mouth soft and hungry over the shape of his cock, kissing it, gripping his thighs with broad, desperate palms. Eventually he curses and does away with his own belt, letting his trousers fall to catch on his boots, which are braced on either side of Merlin’s knees. And Arthur’s cock is dripping too, the thick crown red and glistening with precum. Merlin wants to choke on him, wants to feel it in the back of his throat for hours after the fact, but he’s not _done_ with serving Arthur, _or_ playing servant. “Turn around, sire,” he murmurs, licking his swollen lips. “I want to—I want you where you’re filthiest.” 

Arthur’s cheeks, which are already quite flushed, go a shade darker as he assumes the position, hiking his tunic up over the maddeningly perfect curve of his ass. “Jesus, Merlin,” he hisses, parting himself lewdly, knowing _exactly_ what Merlin plans to do. “Look at you. You’re the most powerful sorcerer in the world and all you _really_ want is to lick your king’s asshole clean. Isn't that right?” he bites out. 

Merlin nods frantically, rubbing his face into the heft of Arthur’s ass, feeling the powerful muscle tighten and jump beneath the scrape of his teeth. “Yes,” he admits. “S’exactly what I want.” 

“ _Well,_ have at it then, go on” Arthur grits out, reaching around to make a fist in Merlin’s hair and dragging him in. His voice loses his bossy edge the moment Merlin actually licks into him though, groaning at the spice, the scent, the sharp fermented sweat that collects here in the cleft of Arthur’s ass as he trains beneath the glare of the sun. Merlin is drooling as he pries him apart and flicks his tongue over the tight gather of his hole, and so _quickly_ Arthur becomes weak and boneless against the wall with a strangled gasp. 

Merlin smiles into the heat of him, licks and licks until the pucker softens enough he can actually press his tongue _inside_ Arthur, where he’s vice-tight and twitching. Things dissolve quickly after that—Arthur takes himself in hand and jacks off, fucking the ring of his fist and pushing his ass into Merlin so firmly he can barely inhale, and he always finds it easier to come when he can’t breathe anyway so he rubs himself through his own trousers, fucking Arthur dutifully with his tongue until his hole spasms and tightens and forces him out as he comes over his fist with a grunt. Merlin follows shortly after, brow pressed into the back of Arthur’s thigh, gaze hazy and fixed on the place he only just occupied, the crack of Arthur’s ass shining with spit, rivulets of it slick and dripping down the insides of his thighs because Merlin gets sloppy when he’s close. 

He comes in his own trousers, mouth open and gasping and spread over Arthur’s skin. For a few moments he sits there on his knees trying to catch his breath, hand sticky, Arthur all over his face, absolving and glorious. 

Then, someone knocks on the door and startles them both. “Sire?” a boy’s feeble voice ventures. “Sire, it’s me, sorry I left the field, one of the horses was collicking and they needed a hand and pulled me away before I could ask for permission—terribly sorry. M’here now, though, if you need—”

Arthur springs into action, hefting his trousers up clumsily with one hand, and clapping the other over Merlin’s slick, swollen mouth to keep him from saying anything, gaze sharp with warning. Then he clears his throat, attempting in vain to sound normal. “It’s um. S’alright, those things happen. Is. Ah. Is the horse well?” he tries, making a face at Merlin that only serves to make him snort into his palm. 

“Yes my lord,” the boy says, rattling the door awkwardly on its hinges as he tries to open it. “The horse should be fine, served her up some warm mash with brandy and got her walking around. Is it—are you locked in?” 

Merlin messily licks Arthur’s palm so he snatches it back in disgust. Then Merlin announces in a very chipper voice, “Yes, we’re _both_ locked in, m’afraid. _Thank_ you for checking in but your services aren’t required right now, you can take the night off.” 

“Hey!” Arthur snaps, accidentally dropping his trousers into a heap again. “You can’t give _my_ servants the night off.” 

“I can and I did,” Merlin says, standing on shaking legs and backing his way to the bed to collapse. “I just heard him skitter down the stairs, he’s long gone now.” 

Arthur glares at him, or at least tries to, but he’s never very good at _anything_ after he comes hard, so mostly he just looks silly and wrung out and elated. Merlin grins at him. “It seems there’s no need for a charade where I’m concerned. He _knows_ about us. Seems everyone does.” 

“Well _yes,_ you're not exactly subtle you know,” Arthur scolds, giving up on his trousers and instead kicking out of his boots and coming to join Merlin on the bed, bracketing him between his knees and burying his face into his neck, peppering it in hungry kisses. “With your incandescently pale white skin that bruises with the slightest provocation,” he murmurs, swiping his tongue over a mark there above Merlin’s pulse that has not faded from several nights ago. “It’s _your_ fault everyone knows I can’t keep my mouth off of you.” 

“Your obsession with bruising _my_ skin is not _my_ fault,” Merlin counters, hauling Arthur up to kiss. 

He wrinkles his nose and pulls away sharply though. “I am _not_ going to kiss you until you wipe my ass sweat off your face,” he says. “In fact, let’s have a bath. We could both certainly use one.” 

Merlin agrees, rolling out of bed to put some water over the fire. Arthur watches him from where he remains sprawled, half naked. He’s quiet for a long while, and then he ventures, “You don’t _really_ want to be my actual official servant again, do you?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft and thoughtful. “I thought you’d be _happy_ , being properly promoted to a court position. Especially after years of _technically_ acting as my advisor but without the title. I _want_ to acknowledge what you are to the best of my ability. ” 

“I _am_ happy with the title,” Merlin promises, stripping out of his tunic and hanging it on the back of a chair, loving the way Arthur’s gaze sweeps all over him, appraising and tender and hot all at once. He smiles in spite of himself, skin prickling under that gaze. “I just _also_ want to take care of you sometimes, like I used to. And lick up your sweat even though you won’t kiss me afterwards.” 

“Fine then,” Arthur says, standing and stretching and shooting Merlin a very complacent smile. “You can wash my dirty hair and dress me tonight, for old time’s sake. Perhaps I can even have some _grapes_ brought up you can feed me.” 

They end up washing _each other’s_ hair and Merlin never gets around to dressing Arthur because he doesn't actually sleep wearing clothes. The grapes arrive but instead of Merlin feeding Arthur they share them, tossing them for the other to catch in their mouths, though neither proves to be very proficient at doing so, and mostly the grapes end up in the sheets to fish out later. But as they snuff the candles and sidle up together in the dark, Arthur’s arm curls possessively around Merlin’s waist so their bodies lie flush, and Merlin thinks it’s the thought that counts in the end, anyway. 


End file.
